The Restricted Section Collection
by rhead-a-holyc
Summary: Drabbles, oneshots, bits and pieces written for The Restricted Section Challenge on HPFC. Possible triggers. I don't always plan these things!
1. Hufflepuff, and Proud

Her mother had always told her that all the Houses were equal; each had their traits and flaws. None were more important than any other. She had always known that her mother would be proud of her no matter which House she was Sorted into; the Sorting only showed her natural inclination, after all, the rest was up to her.

When she had been Sorted into Hufflepuff, she had been thrilled. It had been the House her father had been in, the house that her mother had spent so much time sneaking into, yet welcomed her like she was one of their own. Hufflepuff was the only house with a firm base that would allow her to nurture her bravery, intelligence, and ambition equally, unlike the other Houses which favoured only one. Hannah knew this; it was what she had believed ever since she had heard of Hogwarts.

But she had never realised how difficult it really was to continue believing it. There were few people who saw the Hufflepuffs as her mother had, and fewer still who truly treated every house equally.

Hannah didn't think it was particularly difficult, but that was probably the Hufflepuff in her speaking.

Hufflepuffs were looked down upon, and many of the people from other houses saw them as semi-useless. The Gryffindors saw them as helpless; the Slytherins saw them as weak targets; the Ravenclaws saw them as unintelligent. They forgot that with hard work they could be strong, or smart, or powerful; Hufflepuffs could be as sly as a Slytherin, brave as a Gryffindor, or intelligent as a Ravenclaw, but no one seemed to remember that. No one seemed to care either as they remained stuck in their preconceived expectations.

Sometimes Hannah wondered how it was so easy for people to put others in categories based off their own assumptions. Hannah had never been able to do that. Everybody was just 'somebody' until she got to know them. Hannah thought that was only fair to the person she met. She didn't want to think of someone as rude just because another person had caught them at a bad time, or see someone as a coward because they were powerless to their greatest fear. She certainly wouldn't like someone to judge _her_ because they had believed rumours of something she had done once, years ago.

Hannah doubted the same would be extended to her, though. Seven years of disliking another person simply because of how they were 'supposed to be' was long enough for it to become natural. The effort it would take to reverse that mentality was more than most were willing to spend, but she refused to accept that fate. If she had to work at it on her own, then that was fine with her; she was a Hufflepuff, after all.

She was loyal and hardworking. Those two things were all she needed to be great.

Hannah would be great, if only to show them that Hufflepuff _could_ be strong, and powerful, and intelligent, if they wanted to be.

* * *

 **Written for**

 **The Restricted Section: Trio era with no mention of Harry, Ron, or Hermione**

 **Quidditch Pitch: Hannah Abbot**


	2. I thought you'd never ask

The smile she wore was beginning to hurt her cheeks, but she couldn't stop smiling. Her laughter flowed easier than she had remembered, and her cheeks were red more from laughter than the bitter cold.

Her eyes met Frank's, and the glittering humour and adoration within those eyes warmed her more than any fire could.

"Alice, I know this has been an unspoken agreement between us, but I want to make it official. Will you be my girlfriend?" Frank's face was still flushed from laughter, but she could see the uncertainty hanging onto the edges of his expression.

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

 **Written for**

 **Investment Building Challenge: Word Count Property: 100-120 words [103 words]**

 **Restricted Section: Write a romance**


	3. How we've fallen

If there was anything Marvolo was proud of, the pure blood that ran through his veins would be just that. That was the same pure blood that he had managed to pass on to his useless children. Despite their distinct lack of wealth (something he _definitely_ didn't believe they deserved when there was a family of rich _Muggles_ living across town), he had managed to find a Pureblood wife to ensure the great Salazar Slytherin's bloodline would remain untainted.

The only other thing Marvolo could be proud of was that he had never asked help of anyone. He had managed to get everything he needed himself, without resorting to lowering himself before another wizard to ask for their assistance.

There was no family that was above them; no family could be greater than Salazar Slytherins, and his descendants would _never_ stoop so low. All those foolish Muggles that had thought that they could _help_ the 'poor people at the edge of town' had been cursed as soon as they had dared approach his home.

He would _not_ allow _filth_ within the walls of his home.

Morfin and Merope were still impressionable and listened to everything he said without question. The stories he had told them of how heartless the Muggles really were had scared them as children, and neither had grown out of their fear.

Although, Marvolo often wondered if filthy blood had somehow managed to seep into their blood anyway — there was no other explanation for why Merope often forgot she even had magic. The useless girl bent to pick pans up with her hands, like some _Muggle_ woman and, had he not been absolutely certain that she was his, Merope would have been dumped near the village.

Not that Morfin was any better, the fool hadn't even managed to receive a Hogwarts letter. He'd had to explain the entire situation as him believing that Hogwarts was becoming filled with Half-breeds and filth — which wasn't really a lie, but not the entire truth either.

No one needed to know that the Hogwarts Admission Book hadn't found either of his children worthy to enter the walls of their forefathers while the quill and book considered many of those filthy Mudbloods worthy.

 _Ridiculous_.

Both Morfin and Merope had magic running through their very veins. Accusing them of a lack of magic simply didn't make any sense to Marvolo. They were simply lazy in their use of magic—Marvolo had, honestly, never seen a lazier pair than them. He was certain he hadn't been as last, or useless, as the two behaved; they fought for the sake of fighting, with no purpose but to upset the other.

Marvolo often wondered what he had done to deserve children like his: Morfin with an unrivalled temper, and Merope with a face that had many Purebloods refusing a betrothal, where so many others had jumped at the opportunity, despite their prestigious blood.

The only thing that Marvolo could be proud of was that they had both inherited the ability to speak Parseltongue (even as he sometimes hoped that Merope hadn't, that her mother's blood had been stronger with her—something that had only very rarely happened in the past).

Marvolo sighed, eyes flickering to his son, who was softly crooning threats at a snake, then to his dirt-covered daughter. They were all that was left of the great Slytherin family, and he'd never thought they could possibly sink so low.

* * *

 **Written for**

 **Hunger Games Competition: #19**

 **Quidditch Pitch: Marvolo Gaunt**

 **Restricted Section: #3**


	4. Flask

Hermione hid her giggle behind her hand as she watched Ron puzzle over the little flask she had left out on the counter.

It was one of the many things that Hermione had brought with her into the magical world, all of which had confused Ron _and_ made Mr Weasley unnecessarily excited. Ron _should_ have known better than to ask his father, but Hermione supposed Ron didn't want to look completely stupid in front of her (even if asking _Harry_ would be a far better idea than asking his father!).

But she didn't want to interrupt this.

Ron seemed to be under the impression that almost everything that was muggle was meant to hiss and start smoking when exposed to magic, and Hermione could already see Ron pulling out his wand to tap against the metal frame of the flask.

It was a normal flask, nothing fancy, so it would do nothing at all. Even if Hermione had been horribly tempted to curse it to scream at Ron, like the time he had switched the radio on by mistake as he was tapping a calculator that she had left out by mistake.

His expression had been well-worth having to replace it.

Ron tapped it, and the flask started rattling. Hermione quickly realised that Ron must have accidentally heated the tea she had left inside, and it had made the water start boiling again.

Hermione ran up the stairs and back into the bedroom to make sure that Ron wouldn't hear her laughter over his panic.

* * *

 **Written for:**

 **Wizarding D &D Prompt: Flask**

 **Restricted Section: Hermione/Ron**


	5. Sometimes Fate Finds You

Harry's eyes flicker to the closest exit, a dull headache growing behind his eyes. He _really_ doesn't want to be here, but Hermione had insisted that he join her since Ron had turned tail and ran the moment he had heard of Hermione's plans. Not to mention, he was surrounded by a bunch of screaming girls — Harry wasn't sure his ear drums were going to survive the experience.

He didn't enjoy the screech of the electric guitar, nor the thunder of what Harry supposed was meant to be a 'beat' of some sort — with the occasional echo of someone's voice. What confused Harry most, was how Hermione seemed to be enjoying this kind of music.

It went against the picture of Hermione he had built in his head, but he supposed even Hermione needed to let go every once in a while.

Lockhart screeches another few incomprehensible words into the microphone, and Harry figures it is the perfect time to give his eardrums a break. He mutters something to Hermione, who nods, but Harry doesn't think Hermione has heard a word.

Harry looks for the bathroom furthest away from the performance and leans his head against the cool tile of the wall. The feeling of the cool tile eases his headache slightly, and Harry manages to fumble in his pocket for the pair of ear plugs he had packed for the occasion.

He would swear that Lockhart's voice sounded like a toad being throttled to death, but Hermione would be angry with him for _ages_ if he wore the earplugs in front of her.

The door swings open again, and Harry is barely able to withhold the groan. Even with the earplugs and distance, he can still hear the thrice damned voice.

The person comes to stand next to him, and Harry gets the idea that the man is talking about something. Harry reluctantly removes one of his earplugs, ready to push it back in if the man was somehow singing Lockhart praises.

"—terrible! Can't believe _that_ is supposed to be my competition! He can't even do more than pluck a single string on that guitar!"

Harry blinks. And blinks again. Before he takes a careful look at the man beside him. He looks vaguely familiar, but Harry isn't able to put a name to him.

"I'm sorry. You are?"

The man pauses, looking at Harry almost curiously.

"I'm Tom Riddle. My stage name is Voldemort, though, and I obviously look a lot more normal now than I usually do on stage."

Harry realises he must have seen this man on the telly a couple of times, but he had never been particularly interested in any of these celebrities. They had always seemed to over the top for him, but Harry couldn't be rude either…

"Uh, I'm Harry. Nice to meet you."

The man's curious expression didn't relent.

"I must say, having someone who doesn't quite know who I am, or suddenly scream or something similarly ridiculous, _is_ rather refreshing."

"You've had _men_ scream at you in bathrooms?" Harry asks, incredulously.

"There is a reason there are bodyguards by the door, you know."

Harry realises that he hadn't even noticed the bodyguards during his conversation with Tom Riddle.

The man suddenly smiles, and Harry finds himself a little more than weary.

"I don't suppose you would like to meet up some time? I'd like to spend some time with someone my age that isn't going to look at me with stars in their eyes."

Harry didn't know whether pity or amusement was more appropriate in this situation. Here he was, in a bathroom, _hiding_ from the Rockstar on stage, only to meet another who would like to befriend him.

Adding his number to the phone on Tom Riddle's outstretched hand, the man hadn't even taken a moment to consider that Harry could say 'no', Harry wonders if this is the right decision.

Leaving the bathroom, earplugs covered by the longer hair around his ears, Harry wonders what Hermione is going to say.

* * *

 **AN: I'm sure you can notice that this sounds a bit forced. I admit, I'm not accustomed to writing purely in the present tense, so it gave me a bit of trouble ^^"**

 **Written for:**

 **Wizarding D &D Prompt: Rockstar!AU**

 **Restricted Section: Write in the present tense**

 **OTP Bootcamp: Thunder**


	6. Masks

It was one of the few times his mother had managed to convince Father to allow her to take him to London with her. Severus didn't understand what Father expected to happen when they were alone together, but he rarely allowed Severus extended amounts of unsupervised time with his mother.

Today was one of the few times, though, and Severus had wanted to have a good look around lest his father not allow him out with his mother again for a long time. It wasn't like Father went anywhere but to the pub anyway, and Severus _hated_ the drunken smell of alcohol that clung to everyone within the bar.

As he watched the multitudinous variety of people passing the store his mother had entered, he wondered how their lives looked so peaceful, so perfect. Surely, they had problems too? Fights, like his parents seemed to have almost daily; arguments, _bruises_ , in the case of his mother.

Severus wondered if they had learnt to hide it as his mother had. If they held their fears so close to their hearts that no one would ever find out about them, unlike him. He was sure Father could tell how terrified he was of him whenever he came home drunk and called for his mother. His mother would know how much of a coward he really was as he ran to his bedroom and pretended to be asleep every time Father came home.

Perhaps if he was stronger, he would be able to protect his mother as she shielded him when he was too slow.

Looking up into his mother's warm, but tired, smile, Severus promised himself that he would when he was older. And _stronger_.

* * *

 **Written for:**

 **Wizarding D &D Prompt: multitudinous**

 **Restricted Section: 500 word maximum**


	7. Harmony

When Rowena first met Helga, she didn't like her in the slightest.

While most would have liked Helga's innocence and naivety, perhaps even believed her to be some kind of refreshing, Rowena couldn't stand it. She couldn't understand how someone, a _female_ , nevertheless could be so foolish, so _gullible_ , and still survive when their entire society always favoured _males_ , and women were expected to happily play their parts, knowing that there was no future for them beyond the kitchen and hosting parties.

Her own battle, out of what she considered to be her personal _hell_ , had been both silent and ferocious, and walking out of it, Rowena couldn't find herself to believe in the humanity most boasted of. Such humanity simply didn't exist in those who seemed to preach it without taking breath to pause. She had survived, but her innocence had not, her thirst for any human comfort had disappeared. All she had left was her thirst for knowledge.

But, Helga… Helga was different. She had been supported; she had been loved and encouraged her whole life, and despite everything she said, Rowena had doubted Helga even understood a fraction of what she claimed to.

Helga was Helga, though, and she was persistent. She didn't understand why Rowena hated her so, but she still wanted to befriend the girl that had seemed so much like her, yet so different.

All Rowena had wanted to understand was _why_. Why did someone try so hard for someone who wasn't worth it, who clearly didn't care?

She found out later that it was only because someone had believed in her, a friend who had understood more than her parents had dared to — one that Rowena had eventually found in Helga herself. It was hard to imagine a bitter and cynical Helga, but that was exactly how she had described herself— _with_ the blazing arrows and violent daggers that Rowena had never managed to completely master.

Rowena had to admit that Helga mellowed her out, despite her sometimes more _violent_ tendencies. There were fewer people who glared at her for her remarks when Helga was there to 'explain what she really meant', and Rowena would swear that she had never had this many people honestly even try to understand her work.

Helga didn't understand most of what she did, but her enthusiasm for the unknown rivalled her own enthusiasm for knowledge, and Rowena could argue that they were essentially the same thing.

It wasn't like Helga did much, preferring to _ooh_ and _ahh_ over the experiments that Rowena had already completed, often demanding an explanation in an excited tone, but Rowena much rather preferred her inane chatter to the heavy silence she had previously cloaked herself with.

They weren't in harmony; Helga was like a gathering storm, and Rowena like the eye of it, but they _worked_ , and that was more than Rowena could say for anyone else that she met.

More than Rowena could say for anyone, really.

 **Written for:**

 **Wizarding D &D Prompt: harmony**

 **Restricted Section: any era other than Marauder's, Trio, or Next-Gen**


End file.
